Passing Tides Ch. 01-05

The two arms down my dress silently snake up and outwards, coiling back to their owners. I do my best to stand up straight but the shock has numbed my senses and left my legs trembling.

Thank the Gods that my back faces the door in which Angie entered. While I am gripped by a sense of terror it is the ecstasy that prevents my body from obeying my minds commands. Shaking hands fumble and grapple with my dress, my breasts are cupped into hands and force fed roughly back into their cage of cloth. As my vision begins to clear itself of haze and my trembling wet fingers fasten the final button I try to make sense of my world.

"Been busy?" Angie sarcastically remarks as she walks towards the serving counter.

My head feels dull.

"No change there then," the bitter tone continues "suppose I should have seen it coming."

I judge my bearings and try to find my place within the room, Nathaniel is nursing his hot drink and staring deep into the water as he swirls it within the tea cup, a focused look as if at any moment he will suddenly see his future within the tiny caffeinated waves. Evie holds the cardboard menu while sucking on the fingers of her other free hand as if she'd just finished a sugary snack. She grins but shows pays no attention to my presence.

"Good?" Nathaniel remarks, observing Evie's gluttony.

"Delicious, no..."

"No?" Nathaniel breaks from his fortune telling "No?" He repeats, raising a brow and smiling.

"Not just delicious" Evie responds.

She places the tip of her index finger in her mouth and draws upon it, her eyelids close but from her expression I see her eyes roll back in passion.

I feel a sickness of mixed emotions and find myself frozen in time waiting for a verdict on my taste; unsure as to why I find myself so paralysed to her conclusion.

"It is heavenly!" she says with a warm sigh "nectarous."

She leans over the table and kisses Nathaniel. As she leans over, her grey waistcoat and white shirt raise from her skirt revealing thin black lace underwear and the tops of her smooth, firm looking, behind. I catch myself staring and look away. She finishes her kiss and sits down, for a split second I catch sight of Nathaniel's teeth pulling her tongue as she backs away.

"Nectarous? I agree but I can describe it better." He turns to look at me then Evie does the same.

"Moreish."

I feel a sensation like a tight knot between my legs loosen, they penetrate my slit with their words and it leaves me trickling.

"Suppose I'd best wash then, aye?" Angie aims at me with intent to sting.

As I turn and walk away from the couple and their mind games Angie continues to comment on my work, or lack of, but to me she is mute; the world feels distant.

I hobble unsteadily with sudden fatigue to the safety of the cafés small female restroom.

It is a space no wider than the door that leads to it and to the left affixed to the wall stand as full length mirror. I land against the mirrors opposing wall and stare at myself, before me I am greeted by a woman I do not fully recognise, she is to me like a stranger that I once met in a dream; a person I know but pin no real identity to.

I continue glaring at this consumed and thread-worn girl. Her autumn coloured hair is roughed up and displaced, the dress which perhaps once clung to her gentle but attractive frame tightly was now ruffled; the many tiny brass buttons which ran down the front were periodically skipping holes revealing pale cleavage and stomach.

As I analyse the girl before me she begins to undo the dress slowly, I gaze into her eyes and the soulless clone behind the glass gazes back. One button then another, the shoulders of the dress become slack and fall to the sides revealing fair neck and collarbones.

Soon, without breaking eye contact the girl has unsheathed herself from her outer clothing and I too find myself exposed, a black bra rests atop of her breasts padding them downwards and for a moment panic returns, I flash back in time to the sudden hurry in which I dress without considering the positioning of my undergarments. My mirror friend cares not for how I found myself to be in this predicament and takes little time in removing the bra; dropping it to the floor. A few strategic hip shakes and the dress joins the bra, then her shoes. Her leggings. Her underwear.

In a fleeting and moment of ego I have watched my mirror companion strip down to her most vulnerable, I scan her body from head to toe and back again. She looks nervous but I know as well as she that the solitude of this room serves a specific purpose and so does the mirror; in the years of working here I am no stranger to this spot. I give her a final look, she is biting her lip and holding herself open for me to see.

I feel it. The heat.

I take two steps forward and press my naked self symmetrically against her and the coldness of our glass divide shocks me, my now erect nipples ache against hers and the cold surface. Pressing foreheads together and steaming up the reflective barrier we watch each other finish what has long been started.

Time passes and I find myself on the cold floor in a disgraced heap, spread before me with a tender weakness for all the world to see the autumn girl inspects her opening and judges me. Once more, just once more. I jolt and spasm as she traces hard pressed circles over her exposed and swallow bud.

"I hate you!" she says panting and spent.

"No you don't." I whisper back, driving my fingers into my sore, stretched and exhausted pink. She grabs a breast with her free hand and leans forward; I can now reach deeper and find the cure for this insatiable need. There will be marks.

Time passes and I can hide from the world no more. The air in this box of a room is thick with sex and the temperature causes such sweat that dressing myself is a laborious chore in which fabric clings to my skin, I ignore the mirror, without a visual guide I do my very best to gather my senses and make myself presentable; this made even more challenging by the dull ache which keeps my legs apart.

As I check myself over one more time and pat down my dress I open the door and embrace what little remains of my day.

I am immediately greeted by a soothing breeze and silence.

To my relief the Passing Tides was once again void of life except from the small tuft of blonde hair peeking over the food counter, Angie was in her usual spot; hiding and reading.

I let out a small cough as my mouth and throat feel dry and worn then, with great care, walk to the fridge to find any bottle of drink to relieve me of my dehydration. The tapping of my shoes resonate in the barren echo chamber that is our fathers establishment, though it had seen many great years of popularity and booming success in recent times our whole village had become quieter; this was beginning to have consequences on our family's trade.

As I reach the company of Angie behind the wooden work space I see that she is not lost in her usual hardback book, this time quite the opposite, she holds a small piece of paper and looks upon with a thoughtful expression.

"Here," she raises an arm up to me and hands over the paper, it is not much larger than a business card.

"He seems nice! I'm jealous!" Angie smiles showing her teeth. While we do clash as siblings if the subject matter is boys my sister has always been keen to chatter.

"Still..." She continues "... I can't keep them all for myself can I now?"

As she looks up at me with her picture perfect smile, long light hair and vintage clothing it not hard to see why she is popular with boys, when she isn't grouching she is strikingly beautiful.

I tell her this and do my very best to return a smile, this took a degree of effort as I have never been confident in social circles when it came to romance and something was puzzling me about this note.

'Thank you for your engaging company.

Would love to do it again sometime soon!'

Signed N.E.

A telephone number is elegantly written below.

"Mind you, he's got the hand writing of a girl!" She laughs "I prefer mine a bit swarthier, men of the Earth, not of the pencil!"

As my sister stands up and begins to walk away it strikes me.

Angie had been half correct, it was written and signed by a man but the writing style of the telephone number didn't match.

N.E. - Nathaniel and Evie.

I roll the note up and post it into the chest pocket of my dress.

As the hours of the day rolled by and the sun arched to set into the horizon I reflected on the encounter again and again.

'Like something out of a porn movie.' I kept thinking, having only ever seen it on the computers of previous boyfriends this thought instantly brought a blushing heat to my face. The battles in my mind were fierce and no conclusion could be found.

'I didn't ask for it!' I would say to myself and the girl from the mirror would reply 'but you did want it, you didn't resist and you joined in.'

It would be a lie to myself to pretend that during the long quiet shifts I worked my mind hasn't travelled to the dark lands of fetish and filth, it had been so very long since anybody had shown a physical interest that I confess the idea of fucking at work thrilled me to the very marrow.

I tease myself at the language my mind speaks but my mouth would never utter.

'Fucking!' I think again and I buzz does not disappoint. I begin to feel another hot wave fall over me, self-inflicted with no regrets.

'Fucking, hard fucking!' I look around the room wildly and for a moment no longer see tables, chairs and counters; instead places to be angled over or pinned against.

I remove the scrolled up note and click the number into my phone, sending a single X as a kiss.

Then I wait.

-Chapter 3-

Minutes turn to hours and as I rotate the plastic sign on our window from 'open,' to 'sorry, we are closed!' the room is ablaze with an orange glow from the afternoon sun hanging low in the sky.

The wooden coat rack is stripped bare as me and my sister collect our summer coats and belongings. For me a marine blue satchel adorned with heavy red thread stitching and a collection of miscellaneous buttons, for my more fashion conscious older sister she reaches high up on the rack and dons a large rimmed summer-hat and light scarf; to what purpose this serves her during the summer months has always befuddled me.

As we leave work and lock the wooden behind us the world seems still and peaceful, not a car can be heard nor any evidence of an industrial world; only the bird song and swishing of trees. I close my eyes and absorb this rapture and all its perfection.

"Psithurism!" Angie declares.

"Bless you."

"The trees talking, it's called Psithurism." Angie announces proudly.

I open my eyes and return to reality, the cobblestones reflect the sun and shine like gold, the sky above is awash with orange and yellow its beauty made complete with small scuds of cloud as if the gates to the kingdom of heaven had opened before us.

Angie lets out a defeated sigh "I googled it."

And with that all of nature's wonder is brought to a grinding halt by the inventions of man.

"For a moment," I grin "I thought you'd said something smart, shame on me!"

I click the side of my little shoe against her designer boot and begin to walk way, she follows. As we walk up the hill together we speak of the recent life events that hold value to us and recall our childhood together, this is a rare moment for us; while I hold Angie close to my heart and consider her my true sister this is not the case.

My father and Mother had tried for many years to have children of their own and always to reap no harvest, after countless seasons they decided to adopt Angie; though the history of her origin has always been kept in the shadows I do have a vague understanding.

By piecing together small truths from my father and the intoxicated rambles of Angie in the 'occasional' evening of drunken sadness my knowledge is this, Angie's biological parents we both very religious but cruel with their beliefs and after the world outside of the home noticed signs of neglect on Angie's body she was taken into care. This must have happened at a very young age because there are photographs of Angie as a tiny toddler in my parents arms at home; the abuse must have been dire to have her taken at such a young age so despite her being older she has always felt like a younger person to care for.

We continue to talk until we eventually reach the fork in the footpath that separates our unity and we stand still to say our goodbyes.

"So will you go for that date?" Angie inquires, a moment of silence follows.

"I barely know him!" I finally comment back "He seems kind, his voice is soft and he was polite but you can't judge a person on that." I speak in half truths.

"Go, for yourself!" Angie says with an aura of sternness "Go or God help me I'll take that number off your hands and show you how it's done."

The air begins to fill with tension as it begins to dawn on me how seriously that comment should be taken, my sister could be described as many things and an opportunist was certainly one of them. I lean in and hug without saying a word, wrapping my arms tightly around her. The light summer scarf tickles my face and smells strongly of the same perfume she'd worn since being old enough to find work and buy it. The large hat orbiting her head shades the two of us and again the two of us find ourselves in the same beautiful summer afternoon free from the pollution of unnatural noise, this moment was unfamiliar to the two of us as plutonic was something either me nor her were accustomed to or particularly comfortable with.

Ending the hug with a short sharp squeeze I turn and walk away without another word, I conquered climbing the hill to get away from the Passing Tides, now I must make my way back down the other side to reach the small house share in which I lived.

Down another set of cobble steps with rustic iron railings, past several overgrown plots of vacant land, alongside a single straight stretch of road and finally to a row of tidy brick terrace houses; this is where I currently call home.

I share this abode with two others of my own age and while this isn't where I saw myself being at this stage in my life it has served my needs well.

The first of my housemates is a man called Edward though he insists upon the nickname 'Plisskin'. A scruffy haired brunette with the mellow temperament akin to a Buddhist monk. He is the reserved and self-isolated member of the terrace clan, studying architecture by day and working behind bars at night; he is an odd combination of an image conscious barman that suffers from the kind of poor social skills that only an eccentric intellectual could possess. His eyes always seem to be tiredly staring into the distant even when eye contact is made and his trademark is to, after any meaningful conversation, place his hand upon your shoulder and say 'I feel what you're saying'.

Although I've known him for three years I know very little about his life outside of our flint roofed box, I believe him to be a good man but one that is very lost in the world.

My second housemate is a long-time friend of Plisskin's, although she has only been living with us for around 8 months.

Unlike her monastic comrade, Dannii is more of a bohemian anarchist than Buddhist.

As I unlock the wooden red door of my shared home and step inside I'm immediately greeted by Dannii, she sends me the predominantly warm welcome home 'nod of the head' and then continues to assess herself in the hallway mirror.

Dannii's life remains an absolute mystery to both myself and her barman friend, notice of her arrival came suddenly and without warning.

One night over a microwave ready-meal to share Plisskin told me of a childhood friend that was in need of 'rescuing', many tales were told that evening and it took little convincing for me to agree that she could stay with us on the condition that so long as she lived in our little house she stayed clean and no drama should follow in her wake.

To this day the promise has been kept but there is something about her that makes me feel pity and unease. I have rarely seen her leave the house to see friends or family and I have never heard her talk about career goals or any line of work for that matter.

Still, she has always been able to contribute to upkeep and I have found it easier to have another female in the house, even if that person is somewhat more of a spectre than woman.

I nod back at her reflection in the mirror and she smiles, understanding.

As I hang up my satchel over the bottom of our stairs it begins to vibrate.

"Do you ever get tired of the celebrity life style?" Dannii grins "The press wanting another interview?" She continues.

"Yes, but the money and the power is worth it."

I fumble around inside the many pockets of my satchel as the vibrating continues.

"It's probably one of these modelling agencies," I laugh "wanting to know if I will pose for the cover of their opposite day edition."

Dannii stays engaged with the mirror but turns herself so that she can see me then comically puffs out her cheeks and crosses her eyes.

"I can see I have some strong competition though!"

Finally, I find my phone in black abyss of the bag and turn on the screen, one unread message. I open my inbox and there it sits, one unopened message from N.E.

I click it and my screen lights up.

'Tonight we're at a party, The White Hart Hotel, function room five on the top floor.'

I feel a lump in my throat and a twitching in my body which causes me to sweat. This is all too soon, I haven't begun to defragment my day nor have I begun to understand the moral implications; I certainly haven't healed. Clutching my phone tightly I retreat to the fortress of solitude that is my bedroom and fall to the mattress with a slight bounce.

Although this house maybe considered too expensive for what it can offer much of the cost is based on its location, as I lay sprawled out on my single bed, in a hallow not much bigger than 10 foot by 15 foot, I close my eyes and listen intently to the silence.

"Psithurism." I whisper. Then I sleep; if only for an hour.

I dream of a car, I have stolen it and while it grants me the freedom to go where I please it cripples me with guilt and fear. My ludicrous scenario is whitewashed by the familiar buzzing of my phone, in a haze of fatigue I flail my arms around until they seek out my phone, as I bring the screen to my face I realise how dark it has become outside since departing The Passing Tides with Angie.

Another message from N.E.

'A friends birthday, formal but not a serious ordeal. Please be there, it's our last night here. 9pm'.

9pm, that gives me two hours to prepare.

I'm shocked at the notion of preparation even enters my head, this is not who I am; it wars against everything I have previously believed in. A sense of anger and self-hatred begins to brew inside my mind, how could I of gotten myself into such a predicament in which my temple maybe explored by two passing strangers with a need for an ecstasy fix. To succumb to greed and selfish desire is not who I am.

I begin to reply 'I am sorry.'

The day runs through my head as I cuss at myself, how could I risk everything I've become for just a moment of sin? I replay the sensation of Nathaniel's fingers pulling at me and Evie's finger tips driving in and out of me with my own hand acting as a guide.

The text continues 'I can't do this, it is not who I am.'

My mind passes the threshold of what did happen and into what could of happened if we'd of not been interrupted, if Angie hadn't of rescued me unknowingly who knows when it would of ended, all of my previous sexual encounters typically ended at the moment the man ejected his essence, my mind role-plays a scenario in which I am bent over the small polished tables of The Passing Tides and I'm pinned between Evie's adventurous fingers and Nathaniel's member in my mouth; at the moment he climaxes I find my spirit back in my own room staring at the phone screen.